


Long Lost Past

by litlebritain



Series: In Paradisum [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Emotional, Family, Friendship, Love, Sorry Not Sorry, The Past, Times gone by, definate fluff, reflections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litlebritain/pseuds/litlebritain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1999, Wyoming</p><p>30 long years had passed on the prairie</p><p>Jakes finally managed to make peace with the world </p><p>I feel like this description doesn't do it justice </p><p>(Spoilers from Season 3)<br/>(No adult content)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Lost Past

**Author's Note:**

> Arcadia got me right in the feels so I felt compelled to write this.

1999, Wyoming

30 long years had passed on the prairie. The clear air and open plains had worked wonders and he was now almost unrecognisable. The once resentful, spiteful young Sergeant had blossomed into a dedicated farm hand, a diligent in-law, and eventually a beloved family member. The oxford days were so far gone, so distant a memory that it almost felt like it had happened to someone else. Peter Jakes had been reborn the moment he had left the steamer and stepped onto the new world. There had been a quiet marriage at Hope’s local church, then a reception with her large family in attendance. They had all accepted him so wholeheartedly, and the constant love and affection had really brought him out of himself. Slowly, the memories and horrors of the past had faded, the chip on his shoulder left behind with his crisp suits. Hope had been patient with him, as had her father – she had taught him how to love and trust, her father had taught him how to ride, herd cattle and be a good husband. After a few months, his beautiful baby son was born – Abel E. Jakes. Two more had followed, girls this time and with each new arrival his heart had swollen to with love to a capacity that he had never thought possible. He couldn’t believe he had a family to call his own, he had never pictured his life turning out this way but now it was here it felt so natural, so easy, so beautiful.

 Years had passed and he had continued to flourish, herding cattle with ease and relishing the physical labour of the stable work. He had worked his way up, getting trusted with more and more until eventually his father had given him an equal share of the ranch with his brothers. They had moulded so seamlessly into a larger family unit and there was rarely a cross word between any of them. There were nieces and nephews, birthday parties and sleepovers. Joy and hope flowing from every corner of every field - it was truly infectious and had washed away any remains of the dark, cold and bitterness from his own childhood. He was finally free. Free from the memories, free from the hate, free from the guilt. He had told Hope everything and she had helped in the most important mission of all – forgiveness. Forgiving the past but most importantly forgiving himself.

Then the day had come – the day he had walked his own daughter down the aisle, then the day he had held his new grandchild for the first time. He had never felt such pride, indeed had never had as much in his life to be proud of. He owed it all to those few short months, the last he would spend in Oxford. They had made him the man he was – when he had finally started seeing women as meaningful pursuits rather than brief conquests, when he had learned to appreciate the value of new starts.

Very occasionally, with his wife asleep in his arms, he dreamed of Oxford. Nothing flashy, nothing fancy. Just walking along empty cobbled streets with the spring breeze breathing through the stone arches and the distant chatter of birds. No one else but him, wandering along in his jeans, checks and boots, at peace with the world.

He had thought about writing to Thursday or to Morse but he had always put his pen back down, folded the paper away in his desk drawer. What was there left to say? Outside the pub all those years ago he had watched his young colleague walk off for the last time, shoulders eternally hunched, lonely as ever. He had wanted to call out to him then. He had wanted to run after him, pull him back and tell him. Tell him to forget the past, that he could find forgiveness and freedom as he himself had, find happiness. He wanted to tell him to stop being so hard on himself, to love himself and to let others in to that dark, hardened heart. He wanted to apologise, he wanted to fall on his knees and beg for forgiveness for the cruel taunts, the mockery he had often instigated himself. But had known all along that Morse would not let him say it, would not hear it. He had hoped that it all came out through that final handshake, that final brief conversation, hoped Morse had felt all the unspoken things, hoped that it was enough.

When he had found those savings bonds on the bus, he had felt a lump in his throat. He had known that was Morse’s way of saying goodbye, Morse’s way of making peace with a friend so similar to himself, and yet so different. Both with unhappy childhoods, both with difficult upbringings, both craving for love and affection, yet both taking completely different paths in life. He hoped so much that Morse could find fulfillment, goodness knows he deserved it. Yet deep down, in an as yet unopened corner of Jakes’s heart, he had always known how it was going to end.

One day a letter arrived. An airmail to be precise, from England. Confused, and with shaking hands he opened it. The note was short and simple:

_Peter,_

_I thought you would want to know,_

_Strange (Jim)_

 

There was another piece of paper in the envelope, a small newspaper clipping:

Morse, Endeavour

1936-1999

Heart Attack

Thames Valley police is saddened to

announce the passing of Chief Inspector

Morse. Lifelong bachelor, valued colleague,

loyal and caring.

Loved by all who knew him.

 

Peter just started at the piece of paper as the inevitable words sank in. The words he had never imagined. Such an influential young man, a loyal friend and an eventful life reduced to a few words on a piece of paper. His legacy would live on, he was determined of that. He would make sure his name was known by many, make sure his values of goodness and courage were passed on down his family. He would make sure that Morse had made his mark on the world.

He sought out Hope and wept a prairie’s worth of tears into her arms.

It took much longer than usual, but sleep did come that night. Sometime in the night the dream came too, but different this time. Walking the same cobbled streets, past the same stone archways but in a dark suit. He was not alone tonight either. Outside a familiar pub there were two figures standing, both men. One broad shouldered and impassive, wearing a long overcoat and trilby. The other much thinner, with curly ginger hair, freckles and that rare wide smile. A father and brother from a past life.

Together, they walked into the pub and sat at their usual table, drinking and laughing together just like in days gone by.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not entirely sure of Morse's birth year so feel free to correct me. I'm just making an assumption as in the episode Home the date of his mothers death is 1950 and it is mentioned that he was about 15 when she passed. Please feel free to correct me if i got it wrong. This piece took a lot out of me so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.


End file.
